


five weeks, six days, eleven hours, four seconds

by lq_traintracks (lumosed_quill)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguously Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mild Angst, Sibling Incest, Somnophilia, dub-con, underage (17-ish/16-ish)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 17:03:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4067737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> James had tried to avoid this.  He hasn't been alone in the same room as his brother for five weeks, six days, and eleven hours. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	five weeks, six days, eleven hours, four seconds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AmoretteHD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmoretteHD/gifts).



Rose and her friends have left the compartment. A dense fog smothers the windows. Albus' head falls gently against James' shoulder. And suddenly, they're alone again.

James had tried to avoid this. He hasn't been alone in the same room as his brother for five weeks, six days, and eleven hours. He'd counted on Rose and her Hufflepuff friends sticking around. But apparently, they've all got Slytherin boyfriends, and that's better than hanging out on the Hogwarts Express with your cousins.

Albus' breath bathes James' jaw, and gooseflesh erupts down his neck.

The train has always made Albus sleepy. James briefly wonders if he can move out from under him, lay his head down on the seat, and simply leave. Maybe _he'll_ go find a Slytherin boyfriend. Except that he's not bent. Well, not entirely. Maybe not mostly.

James doesn't move. He watches the fog slide silently by and imagines he can almost hear Albus' heart beating. It's probably his own. James gulps and closes his eyes.

When it happened before, they'd been home. James hadn't been trapped in a moving train, abandoned by his friends. They'd been in a house full of people, in fact. They'd had to be quiet. They hadn't said a word.

Well, that's not true. Albus had said James' name. With James' hand in his trousers, his hips bucking for more, dark lashes stuck together with tears, Albus had said James' name when he'd come.

Five weeks. Six days. Eleven hours. And now this.

This is James' last year at Hogwarts. If he can survive the train ride, he can lose himself in the castle and not see Albus the rest of the year. They don't belong to the same House; they don't share the same friends. It'll be easy.

James turns his face toward his brother. His lips meet soft, dark hair. He watches the way Albus' lashes lay against his cheeks as he sleeps.

Would it count like this? If Albus stays asleep… if he doesn't even know… If James doesn't go all the way…?

If James is the only one to bear the burden of it, can he take it to his grave? So long as he doesn't have to see it in Albus' eyes – every bloody time James makes the mistake of looking at him?

What if there's nothing to see?

It's nothing. When James rests his trembling hand on his brother's leg… nothing at all. He makes no further moves. Except that his gaze flits up to the compartment door, the window there. James touches his other hand to his wand, barely breathing. He casts a Notice-Me-Not on the entire compartment, the words of the spell ruffling Albus' hair.

Albus stirs, and James holds very still. But Albus only snuggles in closer to James' body, sighing and settling back into his slumber. James slowly exhales, and a bead of sweat slides down his temple. He realises, with a stab of sick guilt, that he's already hard.

James turns his gaze back to the grey fog pressing against the window like it wants to creep in and obliterate everything it sees. There are no trees beyond the glass, no hillsides, no dots of farms. There's nothing but blank quiet. Nothing but this cushion of cloud as the train rocks and moves his brother's body against his own.

James slides his hand up Albus' thigh an inch…

Another…

He stops.

His heart resides in his throat now. He should take his hand away. There's still time. He still has one last chance to be a good person, to not want this.

James looks at their robes, slung haphazardly across the seat opposite, ready to wear. The arms are entwined, one thrown up over an absent head. James imagines it's his robe on top of Albus', and his cock gives a strong twitch. He grimaces, grinding his teeth. He knows, even if he stops – even if he folds his hands in his lap for the rest of the trip like a saint… like a proper brother – there is no not wanting this.

Five weeks, six days, eleven hours.

He slides his hand up, fingers curling to the inseam of Albus' trousers, and what had been guilt transforms into a rush of arousal.

When Albus inhales deeply, still asleep, and his legs part slightly, James' mouth goes dry, and he licks parched lips. His dick is throbbing. He wants to touch himself so badly. He does and he doesn't. There's something untouchable about him right now. There's something perfect in the way he hurts for it.

He watches his own hand ascend. The front of Albus' trousers has begun to tent under the strain of his own growing erection. James bites his lip. What kind of perverted bastard gets hot from making his brother hard in his sleep?

This kind. Merlin, fuck, this kind.

James turns his gaze away again and now just feels his way up. He holds his breath as his pinkie finger bumps the hard rise of Albus' cock. James closes his eyes, swallows, and then, just barely, rubs the outside of his smallest finger up the ridge.

James waits, but Albus doesn't wake, doesn't move. So James strokes his finger back down. He strokes it back up. And then down. He doesn't dare move any other part of himself. He realises he's gripping the seat in his other hand like he wants to choke the life out of something. But he moves his finger gently, so gently, up and down his brother's cock.

He'd never considered the skin on the outside of his pinkie finger an erogenous zone before, but the nerves there are singing, tingling from the rub of cotton and the enticing warmth underneath.

It's too much for a moment, and James stops. He stills completely, trying to slow his pulse, because he's almost dizzy from it. But the moment after he stops, he feels a plaintive mewl against his neck, and Albus' hips shift, pressing his erection up for more, seeking the touch he's lost.

Afraid he's waking him, James starts to remove his hand. Before he can, Albus' hand shoots out, and his fingers curl hard around James' wrist.

James turns his head sharply. Albus is looking up at him with drugged black eyes, something unyielding in his expression. As James stares at him, mortified, Albus moves his hand back between his legs. James resists, tensing. But Albus just uses more pressure until they're both trembling from exertion. James beseeches him with his gaze -- _Why are you doing this? You can't possibly--_ \-- but then Al forces his hand down, pressing it hard to his cock, and he hisses in a breath, gasping it out, and starts thrusting against James' palm.

James sits shocked for a moment. The fog's closing in. Everything's backward. Suddenly, Al's in control, and he's giving James more than he ever hoped to take in the first place. James watches his brother writhe. He watches – as if it doesn't belong to him – his own hand closing around Albus' clothed cock. A moan catches in Albus' throat, and the sound breaks open a dam inside James. He starts rubbing Al through his trousers, meeting every thrust. Albus grips James' upper arm and rests his forehead on his shoulder, like James holds his life in his hands. James squeezes Albus' cock. Albus groans, panting, and his come spreads warm and wet under James' fingers.

Albus' hips slow. The groans turn into quiet whimpers. His hand around James' bicep loosens. It drops to James' lap and starts unfastening his belt.

"Al…"

Albus lifts his head and shakes it no. He fumbles with James' flies.

Suddenly, the train is slowing.

Oh fucking Christ, they're _here_.

James tries to push Albus away. But Albus seems to know what James knows: that even if they have but a minute to do this, that's all it will take. James has never been more ready to come. In fact, just watching Albus take his cock out and scoot back a little, making room to…

"Oh, Merlin, Al."

Albus ducks his head, guides James' cock between his lips, and four seconds later – four fucking _seconds_ \-- with Albus' hand working up and down and his head bobbing in his lap, James comes in his mouth.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god…" James lays his head back against the seat. Albus tongues his slit and more comes roping out. James lifts his heavy head and stares down at Albus still suckling him, blinking sedately and swallowing it. It's like he's never seen him before. And he's so familiar it's sickening. And it feels so good James wants to die. He hates himself a little more for thinking that Albus is beautiful with a cock in his mouth. He's beautiful with his hair rumpled, his colour high from his own orgasm, his own arousal, his cheeks hollowed.

James should definitely not think that the gaze that meets his own is in any way pretty.

But it is.

Albus finally comes up for air. He wipes shiny, swollen lips with the back of his hand as the train comes to a stop.

James doesn't want to taste himself in his brother's mouth. He really doesn't.

Oh Merlin…

Albus stands and turns away. He pulls his wand and starts casting cleaning charms on himself. James tucks himself back into his trousers and zips up. He can still feel Albus' plump bottom lip under the crown of his dick, that spot that when he rubs it just right, always gets him close.

"You should take the spell off," Albus says.

James merely sits there for a moment, completely flummoxed. "Wh-what?"

Albus glances at him over his shoulder. "The Notice-Me-Not. You should take it off." Albus picks up his robe, slipping it from beneath James', and shrugs it on.

"Oh." James fumbles getting his wand out but manages to take the spell down.

It's only a moment later that Rose's voice filters through. "Well, here it is." She raps on the door and then opens it. "James," she shrieks, and he freezes.

A thousand slip-ups pass through his mind at once: Has Albus marked him in some way? Is there come on his trousers? Does his sin shine on him like firelight?

"Why must you wait until the very last moment to put your robes on? They don't look _that_ barmy on you." With that, she turns and strides away. Her friends follow, and one of them calls after her, "Who gets lost on the bloody Hogwarts Express? I mean really, Rose."

James looks over at Albus, and Albus looks at him, his gaze uncomfortably penetrating. James gulps. Albus picks up his robe and hands it to him. James takes it… or tries to. But Albus holds onto it. "She's right," he says. "They don't look barmy on you." Albus blinks, and a moment later he lets go.

James turns his back for undeniably ridiculous reasons and pulls the robe on. The fog is clearing. It's turning to mist. Trees coalesce outside the window, bright from a recent hard rain. His brother's reflection is watching him.

"Jamie…"

James' chest goes instantly tight. He's about to turn around, because he can't resist the pull of that voice saying his name like that.

"Hey, Al, come on, let's go!"

James sighs. Scorpius Malfoy. Bloody great. He turns to see his brother's best friend grabbing him and pulling him out of the compartment and into the hall. Albus wears that smile he reserves for when he's around his friends, as opposed to the one he wears when he's looking at James.

James feels stupid in the extreme, standing there in his barmy robes in the middle of an empty train. His brother just sucked him off in four seconds flat, and it feels like the end of everything.

It's wretched – he knows it's wretched – but James wants him to do it again. Already, just moments later, he wants it again so terribly bad. But James wants him to do it slow. He wants torture… that mouth on him, warm and teasing and soft. He wants hours more of it. But it's already long gone, like silk having slipped through his fingers.

Scorpius wrestles Albus into the hall – "Come on, I could eat a Hippogriff." – but before he can manhandle Albus out of sight completely, Albus looks at James. He really looks at him. He softens, and the air between them ignites.

"Jamie," he says again. "I'll see you later?"

James clears his throat. "Yeah. I mean, sure, uh, yeah."

"A Hippogriff!" Scorpius shouts, jostling Albus.

"Shove off, Scor." Albus looks at James again. He licks his lips, and it's both lascivious and hopeful. "Jamie…"

Christ, he should really stop saying it like that.

Shouldn't he?

James' skin warms, and he's suddenly glad he's covered neck to toes in billowing black.

"After dinner?" Albus asks. "Maybe?"

It's the 'maybe' that tells James everything.

Bloody everything.

"Yes," James says, short of breath. "After dinner. I'll… find you."

Albus smiles. He smiles like he does for James. For only James. Then he lets go and allows Malfoy to wrestle him down the hall.

James stands in the silent compartment. But it feels like Albus left something of himself behind. Some kind of warped promise. James breathes in and out slowly once. And then he follows.

 


End file.
